In the end, she dancing and I lumbering along, we
came on a cheerful group collected in the corridor
below. There was the Prince, the Duke of Perth,
the Lord Ogilvie, the two Irishmen, Mr. Secretary,
the Colonel, a strange lady or two, and Margaret.
“I thought your ladyship was lost,” said
Charles, smiling.
“On the contrary, sir,” she retorted,
“I was found.”
“The usual explanation,” he commented
lightly.
“A most unusual explanation, sir,” she
countered deftly, “for Mr. Wheatman has been
explaining how it came to pass that he kissed a ghost.”
“I never said any such thing,” cried I,
vexed to the bone.
“It wasna necessary,” she said airily.
“Was it the ghost of a lady?” asked the
Duke, who had been greatly amused by the dialogue.
“The question could only be asked,” said
Charles, “by one who has not the advantage of
knowing Master Wheatman.”
He laid a hand on my arm and drew me nearer.
“My lord Duke,” he went on, “I present
to you the latest addition to my army, Mr. Oliver Wheatman
of the Hanyards, the first-fruit, I am convinced,
of a rich harvest from the gentry of his shire.”
It was no plan of mine to cry stinking fish to a Prince
who had engentried me in such distinguished company.
“I’ll have two blue stars and a jack in
my coat-armour,” thought I, as I bowed to the
Duke, who made himself singularly graceful.
There was now a general movement down the corridor,
headed by the Prince with one of the unknown ladies
on his arm. There was no other formal pairing
though Lady Ogilvie deftly snapped up the Duke as he
was coming for Margaret, and thus left her to me.
She let the last pair get a yard or two ahead of us,
and then looked at me, her eyes full of laughter,
curtsied, and said, “Good morrow, Sir Kiss-the-ghost!”
“Good morrow, madam,” said I stoutly.
She put her arm in mine and, as we moved off, whispered
mockingly, “Sensible ghost!”
MASTER FREAKE KNOWS AT LAST
Dinner was a success from the Prince’s point
of view. The Duke was completely won over to
the idea of our going on, and even the Lord Ogilvie
at one time wavered before the Prince’s onslaught.
The Irishmen were strongly in favour of it, and Mr.
Secretary, when thawed by wine, grew expansive over
its advantages. I incline to think that the rascal
had ratted already, and was anxious to get all he
could out of the Government by leading the Prince
into a trap. Trap it would have been, as Culloden
plainly showed. Against English regular soldiers,
resolutely led, the Highlanders would work no more
miracles.
So for a space the chatter and laughter went on.
Charles was already in St. James’s, and the
ladies were already queening it in the new Court over
the renegade beauties of the old one. Even Margaret
caught some of the enthusiasm, so that I whispered
to her, “You beat our Kate at counting your
unhatched chickens.”
